The Sinner by Amanda Stevens

wasn’t sure he would answer. There was something very dark and furtive about Lucien Kendrick, but to my surprise, he seemed to relax a bit as he moved in a few steps. “You’ve a good ear. Not many people pick up on the accent. I thought I’d lost it years ago.”
    â€œSo you are French?”
    â€œA quarter on my father’s side.”
    â€œIs that where you grew up? In France?”
    â€œI was born here in Beaufort County. We lived on Port Royal Island until I was nine, and then after my parents split, my father moved us to New Orleans. When I was thirteen he sent me to Paris to live with his mother. Once I turned eighteen...” The slightest hesitation. “I moved around a lot. Prague, Istanbul...” Another hesitation. “Ghazni.”
    I wondered if he’d been in the service. That would explain the way he carried himself, but the eyebrow piercing and body art was at odds with what seemed to be a military bearing.
    â€œWhat brought you back here? Do you still have family in the area?”
    â€œI’m told my mother lives around here somewhere.” He was silent for a moment. “What about you? Native Charlestonian?”
    â€œI grew up in Trinity. I’ve only lived in Charleston for a couple of years, but I feel as if I have roots in the city. My mother and aunt were born there.”
    â€œRoots are not always good,” Kendrick said. “Sometimes all they do is drag you down.”
    â€œYes, I suppose that’s true.’’ I gave him another quick study. “How long have you been back here?”
    â€œApparently, not long enough to lose my accent.”
    He seemed amused, which emboldened me. “Can I ask you another question?”
    â€œYou can always ask.”
    â€œYou said yesterday that the house I’m renting has a history. What did you mean?”
    He lifted a hand to scratch the stubble on his neck. “Are you sure you want to know?”
    â€œYes, of course. And it must be something you think I should know or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
    â€œI only brought it up because I found your choice of living arrangements...odd.”
    â€œWhy?”
    His gaze darted to the church ruins and to the woods beyond. “People say that place is evil.”

Six
    K endrick’s words faded away, leaving a sinister silence. I thought instantly of that shadow moving through the trees, quick and furtive. Then I thought of the inked skull on Kendrick’s hand. The triskele that Darius had drawn in the dirt. The curlicue of a tattoo on the inside of the dead woman’s wrist.
    A pattern was starting to form. I felt the tiniest prick of a dark premonition.
    â€œIt’s not haunted,” I said, and then realizing he might find my definitive tone curious, I hurriedly added, “At least, I haven’t seen or heard anything out of the ordinary in the nearly three months I’ve been living there. My stay has been quite peaceful, in fact.”
    â€œMaybe that has more to do with you than the house,” Kendrick suggested.
    â€œSo what happened there?”
    He seemed to measure his response before answering. “I’ll tell you what I’ve heard on one condition. If you’re still curious once we’re done, you’ll limit your research to the internet.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt’s not a good idea to go around talking about that house. People here don’t particularly like it when strangers start asking questions and they get more than a little defensive about the town’s past.”
    â€œI’ll be discreet. You have my word. But now you have to tell me.”
    He turned back to the woods. For the first time since I’d met him, he seemed ill at ease. He twisted a silver ring on his finger, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he scanned the trees. I followed his gaze, peering intently into the deepest part of the shadows, but nothing glided among